Four Flights

I ran four flights of stairs

to catch a train I thought

was leaving. My hand found

the pole at the bottom,

and my lungs said no.

Not gradually. All at once.

The burning started behind my ribs,

the tightness that won't let

anything in or out,

and I'm standing there

gripping cold metal

while my chest closes like

a fist.

The fluorescent light hums

above me. Everything hums.

My blood. The speakers.

The train doors

that are opening

and closing

and I can't breathe

and it's been ten minutes

or ten seconds—

time is doing something

I don't understand.

There's a woman next to me

reading a book. A man

checking his phone.

They're breathing fine.

They don't know I'm here

trying to remember

how my lungs work,

trying to convince my body

that this is not

an ending.

The hum keeps going.

The light keeps happening.

My hand grips the pole

and I'm thinking

this is how small

we are,

how fast

the body can turn on us,

how a sprint

can become

a reason to panic.

It passes. It always passes.

But not before I've learned

the lesson again—

I'm not as young as I think,

my lungs are not

what they were,

and the train keeps going

whether I'm breathing

or not.